


Prologue (The Story of Tonight)

by Haroldosaur



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF, mcyt
Genre: (also exploring Wilbur's character and foreshadowing his fall a little but SHHH everyone's happy), Fluff, Gen, Niki and Sapnap and Schlatt and Punz are all mentioned but they don't really show up RIP, Snapshots, in case this fic didn't make that very obvious already, just the boys hanging out and being happy before the war, pre-Dreamp SMP war, pre-war L'manberg and the OG gang have a special place in my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haroldosaur/pseuds/Haroldosaur
Summary: Every story needs a good beginning. Wilbur couldn't have hoped for better.
Relationships: Eret & Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Prologue (The Story of Tonight)

**Author's Note:**

> Was deffo not planning on actually writing anything for the Dream SMP, but then I saw this art by qarameiio on twitter (https://twitter.com/qarameiio/status/1355927599856275456) and it just,,, IDK. Inspired me?? fukkin I dunno it's good art and it snagged my feels so here I am

Everything gets so out of control, so quickly. But it’s in the best possible way.

When Wilbur starts the whole ‘drug van’ thing (and no, of course he isn’t going to actually _call_ it a drug van, because he has standards and also because he doesn’t imagine being so upfront about things is an efficient business model under Dream), he doesn’t expect much will come of it. It’s a fun lark, and he’s new in town, so it’s not like he’s got anything better to do with himself. He ropes Tommy into it as well, of course, because he has a feeling that Tommy would have gotten involved even if he hadn’t invited him. He’s persistent like that.

“You’re young.” Wilbur explains why Tommy’s going to be so helpful in convincing people to part with their brewing stands. “You’re naïve, you’re-”

“What does naïve mean?” Tommy interjects.

“Don’t worry about it.”

And so, they have their little adventures, their – their wacky highjinks, and he doesn’t think all that much of it at the time.

Except – then Tubbo gets involved. And alright, Tommy and Tubbo are inseperable, what did he expect, but he feels a lot more responsible when he’s got two children to look after instead of one. And then everything with Sally happens, and then _Fundy_ is there – Fundy. He has a _son_ now. And everything suddenly seems more important. And then one day, Eret helps Fundy get out of a situation with Sapnap and Punz, and then he just starts hanging around as well. And just like that, Wilbur’s gone from a one-man show to the first half of a dynamic duo to a leader of men in what feels like a very short time indeed.

They _endear_ themselves to him, as well, which he didn’t expect. Growing up in the ‘Antarctic Empire’ had made him a bit cold (pun intended) – at least, that’s how he sees it. He has Tommy, and Techno, and Phil, and even a couple of friends like Niki and Schlatt, but he’s never had anything like this before. These boys, these men, they’re just _warm_ in a way that he’s never experienced. One day, he comes back to find that they’ve all built a giant flaming hot dog on top of their drug van.

“I told them to stop, Wilbur.” Tommy gabbles. “I said you wouldn’t like it-”

“That’s badass as _fuck_!” Wilbur blurts out before he can stop himself.

Tommy goes silent, for a moment, considering, before mumbling: “Yeah, yeah, no, I told them to…” The lie is fumbled, born unready and dying before he can even finish speaking, but Wilbur ruffles his brother’s hair in acknowledgement.

-

From there, it’s basically a comical slip n’ slide from being friendly neighbourhood drug dealers to being revolutionaries. And again – it all spirals remarkably fast. He tells Tommy that they should some walls, and then Tommy starts going on about ‘their new empire’, and asking him what their policy is on women, and it sounds so ridiculously fantastical and brilliant that Wilbur can’t find it in his heart to tell Tommy to clam it. Because – the ability to just do whatever they want, out from under the jurisdiction of Dream or anyone else who’d try to control them? It sounds too good to be true.

(Of course, Wilbur could always just go back to the Antarctic, because Dream wouldn’t follow him there. But that’s only the logical thing to do. Wilbur’s never been a man of cold logic. Wilbur’s a man of ideals, of hearts and minds and lofty speeches. He changes the world one song at a time, carving out peaks and valleys with a mightier-than-sword pen. He is an artist, and the world is his canvas. It’s _his_ canvas. And even ignoring all of that, he’s not giving up this newfound warmth for all the logic and ice in the world.)

(“We win wars through our words.” He lectures Tommy at one point, while they’re building the wall. Tommy responds by challenging him to come up with a war-winning word, before hastening ahead to answer his own question before Wilbur gets the chance. He comes up with ‘syllable’ and ‘press-down’, respectively, and Wilbur goes _ooh_ and slams his hands on the concrete to signify approval, and Tommy laughs his smoker’s laugh (which really just makes everything funnier, because he’s never touched a cigarette in his life), and the warmth in Wilbur’s chest burns brighter than ever.)

It’s hypothetical, and then it isn’t. They start talking about names, and Tommy suggests ‘Manberg’, and Wilbur adds an L in the front to make it sound more European, and they end up with the incredibly snazzy ‘L’manberg’. And just like that, their fledgling nation has a name. He writes to Niki, asking her for uniforms, and he gets Eret to help him and Tommy build the walls, and maybe it _should_ feel more big and real, but it doesn’t, because while this is all happening, they’re still just having fun. There’s the time when Wilbur had Tubbo spinning on the spot in the rain for several minutes – Tubbo vainly attempting to spot Wilbur up a tree as Tommy laughs in the background – and there’s the time Fundy catches a fish in his jaws – scaring Tommy and Tubbo half to death at the manic sight – and there’s the time Eret takes of his sunglasses in front of them all for the first time – everyone shrieks and laughs and then rushes to assure Eret that he’s not _really_ scary, they were just surprised, and he’s still cool, no worries.

-

“Welcome to our great nation of L’manberg,” he tells Dream.

“L’manberg?” Dream echoes, sounding as though he’s on the brink of laughing, and it does nothing to convince Wilbur that this is any kind of serious situation.

Wilbur proceeds to explain the whole ‘independence’ thing to Dream, even as Tommy gets all up in the server admin’s face and proceeds to yell his ‘war-winning words’ at him. (“Tower! Fence! Syllable! Viva la revolution!”)

“Well, it’s the land of pussies.” Dream remarks, wryly. Tubbo just _oooohs_ at the insult.

“Dream hates women!” Declares Tommy, as if that’s the be-all and end-all of the matter. “You heard it here first, folks!”

Dream fires back with some half-baked insult about how their land’s called L’MANberg even though they claim to like women, but it’s clear he’s not a natural spitfire in the way Tommy is, so Wilbur lets it slide. Part of him also thinks that their independence would go smoother if they part with Dream on good terms, but the rest of Wilbur’s punch-drunk on freedom and brotherhood and fatherhood and love, so that’s not what happens.

“You can set up an embassy here.” He tells Dream. “It can be a dirt shack, it can be- whatever you want, we don’t mind. Actually- a dirt shack would better reflect your server, to be honest.”

Dream leaves, and Wilbur cracks some jokes about the brave sir Dream running away, and it feels like the end of the, even though he knows it’s just the beginning. _Let Dream come_ , he thinks, still on cloud nine. _Just let him try_.

And then, they just get back on with life. It’s barely even about the drugs anymore – for all the excitement a brewing stand can provide, Wilbur’s come to believe that it holds no candle to spending simple times in the company of his men – but they keep it up nonetheless. He’d call it an obligation, except he still enjoys it. Perhaps it’s a tradition, then. A first tradition for their new country. The heat from the inside of the van is intense, but to Wilbur it feels like it’s just merging with that all-consuming warmth in his chest, and he can’t bring himself to be bothered by it. Even when Tubbo burns his fingers, or Fundy accidentally sets his shirt on fire – he just laughs. Nothing can bring him down. Not today, not any day, so long as he has his men and his nation. His L’Manberg.

“Eret, we’re committing crimes.” He says wryly over his communicator, Tubbo and Tommy in the background as he rummages for something in a chest.

“Committing crimes?” Eret echoes, clearly interested. Wilbur laughs.

-

“We’re the founding fathers, us four.” He remarks to Eret, one night. The pair are standing in front of one of the walls they’ve been building, tired but satisfied. Eret makes a good unofficial right hand, Wilbur has decided. Tommy’s his official right-hand-man, of course – he’s been by Wilbur’s side since the beginning – but Eret is older than all of them, and he’s a consistent voice of calm that Wilbur knows he can rely on to help him keep his rowdy charges under control. Only a little less importantly, Eret just seems like a good man. And Wilbur knows enough about good men to know how rare they are.

“Do we need to write a declaration of independence?” Eret asks.

“We will, we will.” Wilbur assures him smoothly. He’s been thinking about it already. It’s a good idea, and it suits him perfectly. The songwriter president, putting pen to paper to craft his most wonderous symphony yet. To Wilbur, no narrative holds more appeal.

(Tommy distracts him in the moment, of course, talking at him about how he’s found Wilbur a woman, but unfortunately, she’s American – Wilber laughs, and takes the rest of the night off to sort the whole situation out. But he remembers Eret’s question in the following days, as the five continue their idyllic honeymoon of a life.)

“Look around.” He tells Tommy, as the two stroll along the wall on the latest of a very long series of sunny days. “Look how lucky we are to be alive right now.”

“Oh, you’re lyric-pranking me, aren’t you?” Tommy’s response is about as cultured as Wilbur expects, but he doesn’t much mind.

“Look at our great nation, forming.” He continues. “You remember what they said? They laughed at us, Tommy. They laughed at us, in the beginning. They said: “look at these two, in their van”.” For a moment, he wavers. The illusion shatters. Simultaneously, he remembers the scepticism that did come from characters such as Dream and Sapnap, and he remembers that most people really saw his project more with indifference than derision. But the former can’t affect him now – won’t affect him, not when he’s leading a whole nation of his own – and the latter is something he can just brush over when he gets to writing the history books. Indifference, mockery… they’re different, but they’re similar. Similar enough that Wilbur’s story can play out just as he wants it, either way.

“…Eret was one of the few people who stood by us.” He continues, remembering the other man’s willingness to help them build the walls and keep tresspassers away. He willingness to just… _hang out_. Be a friend. “But _now_ look at us.” He finishes, hands planted on hips, pleased. “Look at our great nation.”

By his side, Tommy cheers.

-

The uniforms arrive one rainy night, and Wilbur’s almost vibrating with excitement. It’s been a long day talking with Tommy about the embassy, and about revolutions, and dedication, and now – the sight, now, of this proof of their nationhood and their willingness to fight for a cause… a physical sign of the legacy they hope to build… Wilbur creases the fine cloth in his hands from how hard he grips it. It’s a feeling that he can’t put into words.

“They’re made us revolutionary suits?” Eret normally sounds ambivalent, but now, even he seems unhealthily excited. “I would very much like to…” he trails off, and Wilbur passes him the suit with his name on. It suits (pun intended) him well – it suits all of them well. Sure, Tommy’s hat is a little small, and Tubbo’s sleeves are a little large, and the colours on Fundy’s suit are washed out and make it look like he’s been coloured in with crayon, but who really cares? They’re revolutionaries, and they have _suits_ , and they’re all _here_ – everyone’s here, smiling and laughing and having a good time, caught up in the euphoria of being young and righteous and feeling as though they can take on the whole world. It’s a sign of their good humour that even a forest fire right outside their borders(!) isn’t enough to totally kill the mood. The next day, Tubbo and Tommy get into a fight with Dream and Sapnap, and get their invisibility potions stolen – even then, Wilbur can’t feel anything other than sheer bliss.

“I’m a writer, not a fighter.” He jokes as he watches the kerfuffle from atop a nearby hill. Under any other circumstance, it would have been a slightly sad justification for his own inaction in the face of his men essentially getting mugged. But today it just feels like an acceptable trade-off. Like the universe is telling him ‘ _we know you aren’t a fighter, but that’s alright, because today’s the day that your nation takes its first steps_ ’. The thought excites him – once he and the other are back home after the whole excursion, he calls for ink and feathers. Nothing’s excited him more – even Fundy’s own birth, monumental as it was, seems to pale in comparison to this moment, right here.

“I’m gonna draft up the declaration of independence.” He declares that night, to Eret and Tubbo and Tommy. (Fundy’s sleeping. It’s a little past his bedtime, unfortunately, but that’s okay. Wilbur can spend some time with him tomorrow.)

“Perfect.” Eret smiles.

-

They sign it on top of the van. Heat buffets Wilbur from every source – from the brewing stands below him, the sun above him, and the giant burning hot dog to his side. Even now, it just feels like it’s adding to that warmth that’s been burning inside him since this all began, fulfilling him in a way he’s never felt before. He loves it.

“Gentlemen,” he declares (in keeping with the spirit of the whole ‘declaration’ thing), “I need you all to sign it. Just put your names on the first page- on the first page.” He doesn’t want them to sign it just anywhere, he decides. He doesn’t want them mucking with his writing. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them, or anything, it’s just that- it’s _his_ writing. It’s deliberate and personal and he’d rather they just all stay on the same page (pun intended) and not risk messing anything up.

“The declaration of independence!” He declares, holding the book up in the sight of his men beside him and the members of the Dream SMP watching from outside the nearby walls. “Forever the nation of the DreamSMP have cast great sins upon our great land of the hot dog van…” and then he reads out his whole declaration. It’s a little on the nose, he assesses as he goes back through his own writing, a little unoriginal – but he was aping off of history when he wrote it. He’s making history here, now. What’s wrong with a bit of borrowing from the classics?

He puts his all into the speech. At least, it feels like he does. When he comes down from his metaphorical high, his men are staring at him with wide eyes, and the DreamSMP members are nowhere to be found. Wilbur grins at his boys.

“I’m framing this fucker.” He declares, and they erupt into cheers around him.

-

Lunch is never a fancy affair, with them. Wilbur’s always considered it to be the least formal meal, personally. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and supper is when they all gather together and eat communally, but lunch is almost always a DIY affair, a chaotic cowboy operation. Not today. Today, there’s a pot of stew that Fundy had been making, and fried eggs that had been gathered by Tommy and prepared by Tubbo – or perhaps, gathered by Tubbo and prepared by Tommy. One of the two. Eret does a hasty bit of sweeping, and then they all gather on the floor of the hot dog van, eating stew and eggs and drinking as much of their supply of hot chocolate as they can manage.

(Hot chocolate has always been Wilbur’s favourite drink – back in the Antarctic, before L’manberg and his boys, the feeling in his chest he’d get from drinking it would be the warmest he’d ever feel. Now, it seems like nothing by comparison, but his soft spot remains.

Tommy spills hot chocolate down his jacket and takes it off – Wilbur laughs so hard he rips a seam in his, and doffs it in a show of solidarity. Fundy leans against a wall in the cool teenager-ish pose that he’s been working hard on, lately. Is he so old already, Wilbur wonders in amazement at the sight of his son. It’s definitely too soon in human years, but Fundy’s a fox, so what does he know? The kid’s probably gonna start bringing datemates home soon, assuming he isn’t canoodling under Wilbur’s nose already. The thought tickles him more than anything else.

Between Tommy and Fundy, Tubbo sits on the floor, folding his legs so he just looks like a square shape with a head poking out. By Wilbur’s side, Eret leans back and sips on his own drink. The man’s perpetual smug expression is in place, and Wilbur loves it. If there’s any time to be smug, he reasons, it’s now.

“Hey- yo!” Tommy calls to him, even though they can’t be much more than a meter apart. “Are we gonna have a toast, or what?”

“A toast?” Wilbur echoes, even as Tubbo takes up the chant – “Toast! Toast! Toast!” – and Eret’s smirk widens. “What do you think I should toast?” He asks, wryly. Tommy just shrugs.

“That’s on you, big man.” He remarks.

Wilbur looks around the van, around the men who are following him. And he knows what he’s thankful for more than anything else.

“How about we toast you?” He asks, and it’s only when Tommy laughs raucously that he realises his error in phrasing.

“Eyyyy!” Tommy cheers. “A toast to me!”

Fundy rolls his eyes, but it’s in a way that implies more fond exasperation than ACTUAL exasperation, and Wilbur decides to let Tommy have his moment.

“Sure!” He raises his mug into the air, laughing at Tommy’s ever-infectious cackles. “To Tommy – L’Manberg’s resident terrible terror!”

Tommy blusters indignantly as Fundy and Tubbo laugh, and Wilbur throws his head back so hard that he smacks it against the caravan wall, which just makes everyone laugh harder. It stings, but he’s willing to laugh it off. He knows that one day, when they’re all looking back, moments like this are the ones that they’ll enjoy talking about the most. When they’re telling the story of their nation, and of their independence – it’ll be this that they remember. And no matter what happens next – no matter what hardships they endure, whatever bullshit Dream throws at them, no matter how many dramatic explosions are sure to follow once the war actually begins – Wilbur knows, somewhere deep in his heart and soul, somewhere ineffable, that he’ll not forget this. Not a day, not a line, not a word. The warmth in his chest flares once again.

This is his story, and they’ve given it the best beginning that he could have asked for.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that Ghostbur remembers all this
> 
> (also I was listening to 'The Story of Tonight' the whole time I was writing this, if you can believe that)


End file.
